


Forget-Me-Not

by barbitone



Series: Captive Prince Fanfiction [21]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Typical Warnings, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Uncle is the worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22974013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbitone/pseuds/barbitone
Summary: The soldiers were drinking because the battle was over. They were drinking because the war had ended, and because they’d lost. They were drinking because they wouldn’t have to risk death on the end of an Akielon blade tomorrow, and because they could finally go home. They were drinking, and laughing, and sharing ribald stories.Laurent wanted to scream at all of them to shut up. He wanted to rage and weep.How could they celebrate? How, when Auguste was dead?
Relationships: Auguste & Laurent (Captive Prince), Laurent & Nicaise (Captive Prince), Laurent/Regent (Captive Prince)
Series: Captive Prince Fanfiction [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1455904
Comments: 18
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the pairing- AKA yes there is Regent/Laurent here, though not super explicit/graphic. Also please note that there is HEAVY ANGST. I marked this "choose not to use archive warnings" because I'm not sure how all to tag this really. But there is some questionable stuff here, and Laurent is not ok. Read at your own risk
> 
> Big thank you to [Salt_Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salt_Queen/) for betaing!

* * *

The soldiers were drinking because the battle was over. They were drinking because the war had ended, and because they’d lost. They were drinking because they wouldn’t have to risk death on the end of an Akielon blade tomorrow, and because they could finally go home. They were drinking, and laughing, and sharing ribald stories.

Laurent wanted to scream at all of them to shut _up._ He wanted to rage and weep.

How could they celebrate? How, when Auguste was dead?

The battle wasn’t over for him as he walked towards Auguste’s tent, the smell of smoke heavy in the air. His ears still rang with the clashing of steel against steel, with the screams of dying men. He felt as though he were made of lead and ice as he forced himself to walk, one torturous step after another. He forced himself to step inside the tent, to breathe slow and even as he was overwhelmed by the smell of blood- sharp and cloying.

There was a single lamp burning in the room. There was a body laid out on the ornate carpet, covered by a blood-stained cloth.

Laurent sank to his knees. He didn’t want to lift the cloth. He didn’t want to see and make this real.

There was laughter outside. Someone was playing music.

Laurent felt tears prickling at his eyes, a sob rising up in his throat. He swallowed it back, again and again until he thought he might choke on it.

His hands were trembling as he pulled the cloth away.

Someone had closed Auguste’s eyes. Someone had hastily wiped the blood from his face. There was dried sweat at his hairline and Laurent reached out to brush his fingers through Auguste’s hair only to gasp and pull back in shock.

His skin was cold. Of course it would be, Auguste was dead. Somehow it had still been unexpected.

Laurent had to take a deep breath before he could bear to continue. Slowly he took off Auguste’s armor, cut away the clothing he wore underneath. He washed Auguste’s skin and hair and stitched up the horrific wound that had killed him. He wrapped Auguste’s body in a white shroud and knelt at his side, trying to breathe slowly.

He kept silent vigil at Auguste’s side until the lamp sputtered and burned out. He didn’t move to rise or relight it. He didn’t move to do anything, couldn’t muster the strength.

“Here you are,” someone said and Laurent startled.

He turned to see Uncle standing at the entrance to the tent, looking at him quizzically.

“Oh sweetheart, have you been here all night?”

Laurent blinked slowly in answer, unable to get his mouth working quite right. Uncle’s expression softened and he stepped inside, crouching and taking one of Laurent’s hands. There was dried blood under Laurent’s fingernails, Auguste’s blood.

“Come away, sweetheart,” Uncle said gently.

“I can’t leave him,” Laurent whispered, his voice hoarse. “I can’t leave him here alone.” His voice broke on the last word and he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, shuddering wordlessly.

“I’ll have one of his men come in here to sit with him,” Uncle said, brushing Laurent’s sweaty hair back from his face. “He won’t be alone.”

“I- I can’t-” Laurent sobbed. There was a wail rising up in his throat and he strangled it, knowing if he started now he might never stop.

“Come away,” Uncle insisted, his hand on the back of Laurent’s head the only comfort left to him. “Come lay down. You need to rest. He would have wanted you to rest.”

Laurent forced himself to nod, tears streaking down his cheeks as he let Uncle pull him to his feet.

He couldn’t quite stand so Uncle took him in his arms and carried him away, back to his own tent. Once there he sat Laurent down on his bedding and went to unbuckle Laurent’s armor, and then unlace the clothing he wore underneath.

“Uncle,” Laurent managed, confused.

“Hush, sweetheart,” Uncle said gently as he peeled away layers and layers of cloth, stiff with dirt and sweat. “You’re filthy. We’ll clean you up and then you can sleep.”

Laurent didn’t protest after that, not even when Uncle bathed him with a cloth and a basin of ice cold water. It seemed to last for ages, but then Uncle was tucking him into bed, still nude, and stroking his hair.

“Sleep now,” Uncle murmured. “I’ve got to check on the men, but-”

“Uncle,” Laurent breathed out. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”

“Alright,” Uncle said after a moment. “I’ll stay with you, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

Laurent waited, trembling as Uncle changed into a sleep shirt and slid in under the blankets beside him. Laurent turned and pressed his face to Uncle’s chest, weeping openly while Uncle held him in his arms.

“Hush,” Uncle whispered. “You’re alright now. Everything will be alright.”

* * *

On the way home Laurent insisted on riding in the wagon with Auguste’s shrouded body, with his bloodstained armor packed up in a chest.

Jord came along once to try to take it away for cleaning but Laurent snarled at him to fuck off and he didn’t try again.

Every morning and every evening he washed Auguste’s body, packing his wounds with sweet-swelling herbs. It did no good as he started to smell and decompose over their long journey. By the end of it Laurent knew that the foul bloated corpse he was sharing the wagon with was not his brother, and still he could not drag himself away.

Eventually they reached Arles and Laurent watched the funeral from somewhere outside himself. The only thing keeping him in the mortal realm was Uncle’s heavy hand resting over his shoulder. The casket was surrounded by lavish bouquets of morning glories and forget-me-nots, Auguste’s favorites. As blue as his banner, as blue as his eyes.

The first night back Laurent stole into Auguste’s rooms and curled up in his bed. The sheets had been freshly changed but the room still smelled of him, like sunlight and leather and steel. He managed to drift off faster than usual and woke to a room bathed in surreal gray pre-dawn light.

There was a figure standing over the bed, dressed in full armor. Laurent’s breath caught in his throat as he stared.

“Auguste?” he whispered, his heart soaring.

Auguste didn’t move and Laurent sat up in bed, moving to hold Auguste by the shoulders.

“Auguste!” he cried out. “Auguste! Say something! Why aren’t you saying anything?!”

He moved his shaking hands to raise the visor of the helmet, jerking back when he saw it was empty. He shrieked and flailed, knocking the suit of armor down to the ground where it fell apart with a clatter.

He kept screaming until the door burst open and Jord and Orlant ran in with swords drawn.

“Your Highness,” Jord gasped out, looking around the empty room in alarm.

Laurent’s screams turned to wails as he collapsed to the bed, gripping his hair and screwing his eyes shut.

Distantly he was aware of Jord and Orlant rummaging through the room, but there was no one there. Auguste was gone.

“Your Highness,” Jord said carefully, sheathing his sword as he came closer.

“Get out,” Laurent managed between sobs. When Jord hesitated Laurent threw a pillow. _“Get out!”_

Jord and Orlant retreated, leaving Laurent to weep alone. By the time he settled it was late afternoon and Laurent rose to shakily put Auguste’s armor back together on its stand, his fingers numb over the bloodstained metal.

He retreated to his own rooms after, cold and unwelcoming. By dinner time he was still in his sleep shirt, sitting on the windowsill as he watched the courtiers strolling through the pleasure gardens below. He hated them all with a burning passion. They shouldn’t get to be happy, not while Auguste was dead. No one should ever be happy again.

Some time later there was a quiet knock followed by the door opening. Laurent didn’t look over as he listened to the shuffling movements of a servant bringing him a dinner tray. Eventually they left and Laurent kept sitting, motionless as the sun set. He dozed off eventually, waking with a start to a dark room.

It seemed colder than before, _hostile_ in some intangible way. He considered going back to Auguste’s rooms only to shudder as he remembered the armor standing by the bed, reeking of blood.

He went to Uncle’s rooms instead, knocking briefly and waiting, terrified, until he heard the quiet ‘ _enter’_ from within.

“Laurent,” Uncle said. He was sitting in bed, reading some missive by lamp light. He set the parchment down, frowning, as Laurent came closer.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Laurent whispered, wringing his hands in his nightshirt. “With you?”

“Laurent,” Uncle said with a sigh. “It was one thing for you to share my bed on the road, but now? People will talk.”

“Please,” Laurent begged. “Please, Uncle. I don’t want to be alone.”

Uncle rubbed the bridge of his nose before sighting. “Alright, sweetheart,” he said at last. “But it will have to be our little secret.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Laurent breathed out in relief, coming closer when Uncle pulled the blanket back in invitation. “Thank you.”

He curled up on his side under the blanket, closing his eyes as he listened to the soothing sound of rustling pages behind him as Uncle went back to his reading. After a while there was a heavy hand stroking his hair and Laurent sighed in relief, a small sense of peace stealing over him.

He wasn’t alone. Auguste was gone, father and mother were gone, but at least he still had Uncle.

He sniffled, trying to stifle it into the pillow.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Uncle murmured, setting his papers down at last and blowing out the light. He laid down and pulled Laurent to his chest, stroking his hair as he cried. “My sweet darling boy,” Uncle whispered. “Whatever will we do with you?”

Laurent sobbed louder, clutching at Uncle’s night shirt.

“Hush, child,” Uncle murmured. “Hush, you poor lovely thing.”

* * *

Laurent slept in Uncle’s bed every night for the next few weeks. Uncle put up with it stoically until the third time Laurent woke him up in one night with his nightmares.

He didn’t say anything, just thinned his lips and pulled Laurent close to his chest while he cried. Laurent felt scared and ashamed at himself. If he made Uncle angry he’d have no one. No one at all.

Uncle invited him to share dinner together that night in his chambers. Laurent went, of course. Where else would he go?

“Here, sweetheart,” Uncle said, pouring him a glass of wine and pushing it towards him.

Laurent blinked, unsure. Auguste had always told him he was too young to drink. He’d only laughed whenever Laurent pouted, put out at being refused.

“Go on,” Uncle said gently. “It’ll make you feel better. Don’t worry, it’s our little secret.”

Laurent took a careful sip, grimacing at the taste. Uncle chuckled quietly and Laurent managed a weak smile in return. He took another sip. It wasn’t as bad the second time. He tried to drink steadily through dinner, his mind growing loose and easy.

By the end of the night he felt dizzy and sick but it was hard to think and that much, at least, was a blessing. Uncle seemed pleased.

When Laurent stood he stumbled and Uncle tutted over him as he came closer to lift him in his arms and carry him over to the bed. Uncle undressed him slowly, so careful with his laces.

“You should relieve yourself before bed, sweetheart,” Uncle said quietly.

Laurent flushed and rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. He nodded and tried to stand only to swoon and nearly fall over.

“Oh dear,” Uncle said with a chuckle. “Here, let me help you.”

Laurent flushed harder with shame as Uncle retrieved the empty chamber pot and settled himself at Laurent’s back, holding the pot with one hand and dragging his other up Laurent’s thigh, rucking up his sleep shirt before cradling Laurent’s flaccid cock in his hand.

“It’s alright, sweet boy,” Uncle murmured into his ear. “I won’t tell anyone. Go on.”

Laurent’s breath came quick as he screwed his eyes shut. This felt- strange. Wrong. But Uncle was trying to help him, and his bladder was so full-

“Let go, it’s alright,” Uncle whispered.

Laurent sniffled in shame but he couldn’t hold back much longer. His face burned while Uncle held him as he- he-

Uncle whispered quiet words of encouragement and Laurent wasn’t sure if that made him feel better or worse. Once it was over Uncle put the pot away and tucked him into bed, kissing his forehead.

“I’ve got some work, still,” he said, stroking Laurent’s hair. “But I’ll be back soon to hold you in your sleep.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Laurent sniffled, slurring his words. “I- I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You don’t have to know,” Uncle said with a smile. “I’ll always be here to take care of you. I’ll take care of everything.”

* * *

Laurent woke to a headache and an empty bed and shuffled off to Auguste’s rooms, still barefoot and in his nightshirt, sitting with his back against the wall and his head leaning against Auguste’s greaves.

“I miss you,” Laurent whispered into the stillness. “I really- I really miss you.”

He winced and rubbed at his temples, trying to push back the pain. The longest he’d been parted from Auguste was when Auguste had gone on a month-long diplomatic mission to Vask. He wondered if a month had passed already. He wondered if it would ever get easier.

“Uncle-” he stopped to swallow. He remembered what had happened the previous night, and in the cold light of day it made him sick. “He-” Laurent started only to break off, unable to continue. “Auguste. I need you. I-”

He sniffled, burying his face in his knees.

There was a loud thump and Laurent startled, looking around. One of Auguste’s gauntlets had fallen to the ground.

Laurent moved slowly, feeling like he was swimming through syrup as he picked up the gauntlet and ran his fingers over it, the blood dried in the grooves. It was the gauntlet Auguste had worn on his right hand. It was the hand he used to wield his sword.

“Auguste?” Laurent whispered, looking up.

He waited, hopeful and afraid, but the armor didn’t move.

“Auguste,” Laurent said, moving to press the gauntlet to his cheek as he closed his eyes.

Auguste had touched him like this, before the final battle. He’d cradled Laurent’s face in his gloved hand and smiled his bright sunshine smile before bending to kiss Laurent’s forehead.

 _“Stay out of trouble, baby brother,”_ he’d said. _“And make sure there’s a warm bath waiting for me when I return. I’ll be tired and grimy after winning this war.”_

And then he’d mussed Laurent’s hair and turned away, and that was the last living memory of him that Laurent would ever have.

Laurent didn’t have the energy to cry anymore so he stayed sitting, his cheek pressed to Auguste’s cold greaves, until the light grew dim. He’d ordered the servants to stay away so no one would come to light the fires, and no one did.

Eventually the door opened and Uncle came in, carrying a dinner tray in one hand and a lamp in the other. Laurent swallowed as he forced himself to stand, walking over to the table.

“You shouldn’t hide away in here,” Uncle said, pushing a plate of food towards him. It turned Laurent’s stomach but he dutifully picked up a fork.

“Here, sweetheart,” Uncle said, “let me pour you some wine.”

He raised the decanter and Laurent felt the air grow cold all at once. For some reason he felt scared- scared enough to screw his eyes shut and hide his face in his hands.

He only heard what happened- a gasp from Uncle, glass shattering, liquid spattering everywhere.

Laurent looked up to see his Uncle holding up the neck of the shattered decanter, wine spilling everywhere- everywhere but Laurent’s plate, which really should have caught the brunt of it. 

There was a cut on Uncle’s cheek and blood trickling down into his beard. His eyes were wide with shock as he stared at the glass shards glittering on the stone floor.

“Uncle?” Laurent whispered. “What happened?”

“I-” he started, looking dazed until he smiled abruptly. “Just an accident, think nothing of it. I’ll fetch a servant. Go back to your own rooms, sweetheart.”

As soon as Uncle left the air seemed to grow warmer, the sense of foreboding passing. There was a strange smell in the room, sweet like flowers. Forget-me-nots.

Laurent didn’t want to go back to his room. He stepped away from the table, walking through the puddle of wine without care towards Auguste’s wardrobe before opening the door and climbing inside. 

It wasn’t until he was sitting in the dark with Auguste’s favorite doublet wrapped around his shoulders and Auguste’s familiar smell around him that he remembered the glass shards on the floor. He hadn’t stepped on a single one.

* * *

Laurent didn’t know how long he was hiding in the wardrobe, but in the end it wasn’t thirst or hunger that drove him out. It was the smell of flowers, cloying and painful in their familiarity.

He managed to make it to his own rooms, dressing in riding breeches and a tunic before heading down to the stables. He didn’t pass very many people- it was dark out and it must have been late. He saddled Belle, Auguste’s horse, in silence before riding out, heading north towards the forest. It was dark but he knew the trails well, and so did Belle.

It was strange to be out of the palace when he’d been cooped up in cold empty rooms for so long. But he supposed all rooms would feel empty to him now so he’d better get used to it. He rode until Belle balked, tossing her head and refusing to go any further.

Laurent blinked, confused. It felt like no time at all had passed but the sky was lightening with dawn. He was overlooking a large clearing filled with crumbling Artesian ruins. Auguste had taken him here once or twice as a child and they’d had play swordfights, laughing as they clambered over the crumbling stones.

The memory was hazy with late afternoon sunlight and a child’s joy. Laurent sniffled and wiped at his eyes. He could almost hear laughter in the distance, could almost taste the sweet fruity tarts Auguste had brought for them to share. Auguste felt close somehow, but that only made his absence hurt all the more.

“Let’s go back,” Laurent whispered, patting Belle on the neck. She tossed her head and whickered softly before turning and taking them back towards the palace. He felt woozy, ill. He must have been riding all night and now he could feel it all through his body. He wasn’t sure when he’d last eaten anything, or had a drop to drink.

It must have been a day ago. The wine.

Laurent swayed in the saddle, his vision blurring and growing darker at the edges. He tried to tighten his hands over Belle’s reins but his fingers didn’t seem to be cooperating.

The last thing he felt was the sickening sensation of falling.

* * *

Laurent woke slowly. He was warm and lying somewhere soft. Someone was stroking his hair.

“Auguste?” Laurent whispered, too afraid to open his eyes. He knew it was stupid, but maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he was dreaming and he’d open his eyes to see Auguste with him, smiling at him. He’d never once dreamt of Auguste after his death, no matter how much he ached to. Maybe this was a dream and he could stay in it always.

“Your highness,” said the unmistakable voice of Paschal and Laurent felt his heart withering in his chest.

Now that the hope had passed, he opened his eyes. He was in his own rooms with Paschal sitting at his bedside. His chest ached, his left knee was pure agony. He felt like if he moved now his joints would creak like a door on rusted hinges.

“You took a nasty fall,” Paschal said. “But there are no broken bones, just a few bruises. I’m more concerned that you seem to be dehydrated. And your color- when was the last time you’ve had anything to eat?”

Laurent swallowed around the knot in his throat, looking up at the ceiling. “Where is my Uncle?”

“The Regent is busy with the work of running a kingdom,” Paschal said. He turned away to take something off the bedside table- a glass of water. “Please, your highness. You should have some water.”

Laurent scowled and knocked the glass out of his hand. It fell to the stone, shattering and spilling water everywhere. “I don’t want _you,”_ he hissed. He knew it wasn’t Paschal’s fault that he’d mistaken him for Auguste, but that didn’t stop how _furious_ he felt at him anyway. “I want my Uncle. Send for him.”

Paschal was silent for a long moment, his face so profoundly sad that Laurent wanted to kick him. “I’ll send for him, your highness,” Paschal said at last. “But won’t eat in the meantime? The kitchens are making your favorite soup, they’ll be sending it up soon.”

“I want my Uncle,” Laurent said, curling up on his side with his back to Paschal. “I won’t eat or drink anything until he gets here. Get out.”

After dithering for another moment he heard the rustling of fabric that meant that Paschal had bowed. “As you like, your highness. I’ll send for him, and for someone to clean up the mess.”

Laurent didn’t bother turning around as he heard Paschal leave, or as servants came in to clean up the broken glass and spilled water. He didn’t turn until hours later, when the door opened and he heard Uncle’s distinctive footsteps.

“Oh you silly boy,” Uncle murmured. There was the quiet clink of dishes and then the feeling of the mattress dipping as Uncle sat down and stroked his back. “You had us all worried sick. Come, I’ve brought something for you to eat.”

Laurent turned at last to lie on his back, letting Uncle help him into a sitting position. When Uncle brought a glass of water to his lips he drank obediently, and then he let Uncle feed him soup.

“I’ll make you feel better,” Uncle said, pouring him some wine.

“I’m not sure I should…” Laurent whispered.

“It’s alright,” Uncle said. “Everything’s alright. Trust me.”

Laurent nodded and took the glass with shaking hands before drinking, hoping for that strange dizzy numbness to take him out of his mind. It was late, nearly time for sleep, and he was so tired.

“I’ll stay here with you tonight,” Uncle said as he started undressing. “And I’m going to make you feel better, but you have to promise to keep it a secret.”

Laurent simply nodded, his mind hazy and his thoughts slow. He didn’t protest when Uncle took the empty glass from his hand and set it aside, moving to slide in under the sheets. Uncle wrapped his arms around him, spooning him gently.

“I’m going to make you feel good, I promise,” Uncle whispered, moving to stroke his thigh. His fingers moved higher and higher, pushing up the nightshirt someone must have changed him into after he’d been brought to his rooms.

Laurent frowned, hiding his face in the pillow. There was something wrong about this, but he couldn’t figure out what. He fell asleep with Uncle still touching him, whispering nonsense against his hair.

* * *

In the morning Uncle helped him dress.

“You’ve been sulking too long,” he said. “It’s time for you to return to your duties. You’re the Crown Prince now.”

Laurent bit his lip and nodded miserably. Uncle arranged for him to return to his lessons, and so he went even though none of it could quite penetrate the fog in his mind. In the evenings he’d take supper with Uncle and drink wine when it was offered to him. Sometimes Uncle would retire to his own quarters, and sometimes he would stay. They’d lie in Laurent’s bed and Uncle would touch him.

After the first few times the strangeness faded. And it _did_ feel good, in an odd way. It felt good not to be alone.

Laurent wasn’t an idiot. He knew it was… _wrong._ Whenever the guilt grew too overwhelming he’d go hide in Auguste’s room and Uncle would never come for him there. Laurent would sit with his face pressed to the cold unyielding metal of Auguste’s greaves and talk nonsense, or cry, or simply- wait. Wait until the loneliness became too much and he’d rise to seek out Uncle once more.

It escalated slowly. Each thing Uncle asked of him was only a little more difficult than the one before, until Laurent found himself kneeling between Uncle’s thighs with Uncle’s cock in his mouth. The act of it didn’t trouble him in the moment, not until he woke from a nightmare of blood and screaming, of Auguste screaming his name.

He knew there’d be no more sleep that night and he didn’t want to wake Uncle with his tossing and turning. He didn’t want Uncle to be angry with him.

Laurent snuck out of Uncle’s bed and wandered down the hall, finding himself inevitably in front of Auguste’s door. He was almost afraid to open it, but in the end he was powerless to stop himself.

The room was as cold as a mausoleum, dust covering every surface. There was so much dust. How long had it been since Auguste had stood in these rooms? A year? More? Laurent wasn’t sure.

There were faint footsteps on the floor from Laurent’s comings and goings, the musty bedsheets were still mussed from the last time Laurent had come to sleep here even though Auguste’s comforting smell had long faded. Even the wardrobe filled with riding jackets and fancy doublets no longer smelled of anything but dust.

Laurent stared at the suit of armor standing by the bed, the bloodstains and the dents in the merciless metal.

What would Auguste think if he knew about what Laurent had done without protest earlier that very evening? He would think Laurent was a disgusting deviant, a freak. He’d sneer and turn his back on his tainted little brother.

There was a clink of metal, a sound like a footstep. Laurent gasped, backing away from the armor. Had it moved? He wasn’t sure, it was too dark in the room to tell.

“Auguste?” he whispered shakily. Maybe Auguste’s spirit was here, watching him shame himself over and over again until he grew angry and decided to cleanse the taint from his bloodline. That was a thought too horrible to contemplate, but suddenly all Laurent could think about was how it would feel for those familiar gauntlets to close around his throat and _squeeze-_

The room smelled of flowers, drifting in out of nowhere. It was so strong that Laurent couldn’t breathe through it. He stumbled over to the balcony doors and threw them open, letting in a flurry of snowflakes and gasping as the cruel frigid gale stole his breath.

He was in just his nightshirt, every inch of exposed skin stinging from the cold before he went numb. Laurent scrambled over to the edge of the balcony as his stomach heaved in protest and vomited over the railing before sinking to his knees.

He couldn’t keep going like this and he couldn’t do anything else. The wind wailed around him and he shuddered, wrapping his arms around his middle and leaning his forehead against the railing, breathing hard. He wasn’t sure he could stand with the way his knees were shaking and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Staring down into the gardens he managed a small smile. They looked beautiful covered in snow, clean and fresh, untouched. 

Auguste had so loved the snow.

Laurent knew he should go back inside, but he wasn’t shivering anymore. If anything he felt almost warm. He felt almost good, as though if he closed his eyes he could sink into a restful sleep filled with only sweet dreams that echoed with Auguste’s laughter. Surely that wouldn’t be so bad.

He closed his eyes and had the loveliest dream- racing horses with Auguste, climbing trees to get to the best summer peaches, sitting curled up together in the library while Auguste read to him and did all the silly voices.

Laurent woke to find himself tucked into Auguste’s bed. The balcony doors were closed and barred. There was a fire crackling merrily behind the grate. The room was warm. The suit of armor was exactly where it had always been, the dust around it undisturbed.

Even though Laurent was sure he could remember someone stroking his hair, he was alone.

* * *

The night of his fifteenth birthday Laurent pretended to be ill so he wouldn’t have to go to his birthday feast. He could still hear the continued merriment when he snuck out of his room around midnight to steal into the kitchens for a piece of cake and a bottle of wine.

Auguste had always used to bring him extra cake on his birthdays, but now Auguste was gone.

Laurent went back to Auguste's room and sat on the floor with his back against the bed, staring at the cake. He couldn't bring himself to take a bite no matter how hard his stomach grumbled. He drank the wine instead.

He drank until he felt sick and then he drank some more. He woke to hushed muttering and quiet footsteps, still too drunk and disoriented to understand what was happening. There were people in the room. There were-

Assassins.

Laurent’s heart sped up. The only reason they hadn't found him yet was because he'd passed out on the floor behind the bed.

“Where is he?” someone hissed.

“He's meant to be here,” a gruff voice answered.

Laurent carefully eased himself under the bed, praying they wouldn't find him. He heard them rummaging around in Auguste's belongings, shaking with fear as much as fury. He couldn't stand the thought of strangers putting their hands all over Auguste's things.

“Hey, what the-?” one of the men said before there were heavy footsteps, the ringing of steel. Laurent screwed his eyes shut and slapped a hand over his mouth as he tried not to whimper.

There was a scream, a thud, the smell of flowers mixing with the sharp tang of blood.

Laurent didn't dare move as he heard steel clashing against steel. His guards were here to kill the assassins that had come for him. That was all. Just his guards. 

Tears slipped down his cheeks as he fought to stay quiet. There was another scream, the last man was begging. Laurent nearly yelped at the sound of a heavy footstep, the ring of steel filling the room. There was another scream followed by a squelch and a thump. 

Laurent turned his head and only barely managed to contain a shriek as he met the glazed eyes of a fresh corpse. The room was silent as the grave and Laurent couldn't breathe through the terror.

Why was the room silent? Weren't his guards here? Where were his guards?

The smell of blood was overwhelming and Laurent sobbed, suddenly desperate as he climbed out from under the bed. His head was swimming as he jerked to his feet and nearly vomited. And then he took in the sight of the two hacked-up bodies laid out over the floor and had to grab Auguste’s dusty chamber pot as his stomach emptied itself violently.

Where were his guards? Where was everyone?

He stumbled out of the room, crying. The halls were empty. Why were they so empty? His own rooms were unguarded too, so Laurent staggered past them. Where was Uncle? He needed Uncle.

He burst into Uncle’s room, his breath hitching and his vision blurred with tears. The room was warm and cozy, comforting. Uncle was sitting at the dining table and- and-

There was a boy sitting in his lap. He was pretty and decked out in the revealing silks of a pet. His auburn curls shone in the firelight and his eyes were as blue as the noon-day sky. He couldn't have been older than ten.

“Uncle,” Laurent whispered, sick to his stomach. He was disgusted and desperately jealous all at once.

“Laurent,” Uncle said coldly. Not _sweetheart._ Not _dear boy._ Laurent.

“Uncle,” Laurent said, watching as Uncle stroked the boy’s side and patted his bottom, prompting him to rise and walk away.

Someone had tried to kill him just now, and yet all he could think about was the boy sitting in his Uncle’s lap.

“What are you doing here?” Uncle asked with a frown. “If you’re ill you should be in your rooms.”

“I- I was,” Laurent managed. “I was in my rooms. Who is he?”

“My pet,” Uncle said, as though it was obvious. Laurent must have looked shocked because Uncle sighed. “Oh, Laurent. Of course I took a pet. Surely you didn't think this thing between us could last forever?”

“You said you loved me,” Laurent managed to whisper, horrified as he remembered all the things he’d done- all the things Uncle had made him do.

“Don’t be a child,” Uncle said, wrinkling his nose. “You’re too old for that now. Take it with grace and walk away. Go back to your room.”

Laurent sniffled, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He should have known. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he _had_ known.

“Laurent,” Uncle said coldly.

Laurent sobbed, overcome with fury and shame. He’d thought- he’d really thought- so many things that weren’t true. He’d thought he was special, that Uncle loved him. And instead he’d used him and thrown him away, replaced him with some younger boy because that’s all he really cared about in the end.

“Uncle, please,” Laurent sobbed, trying one last time. “I need you. Please-”

“These sorts of hysterics are unbecoming of a young man, a prince,” Uncle said, looking away.

“Get rid of him!” Laurent cried out. “Get rid of him or I’ll- I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” Uncle asked, his tone flat with boredom.

“I’ll tell everyone what you did,” Laurent said, balling his hands into fists to stop them shaking.

Uncle laughed like Laurent had told the most delightful joke. “Oh?” he asked with a cruel smile. “And what exactly will you tell them? How eagerly you came to my bed? How you fell to your knees so you could suck my cock? How you begged me to fuck you like a cheap back alley _whore?”_

Laurent saw red. His reason fled him and he was moving before he knew it, grabbing a knife from the table and shoving it into Uncle’s neck with a snarl.

Uncle’s eyes widened and Laurent couldn’t help a gasp, yanking the knife out to a shower of blood. There was so much blood. Uncle tried to stem the flow, to speak. He flailed even as he collapsed from his chair, choking on his own blood.

“Oh god,” Laurent whispered, dropping the knife and falling back. What had he _done?_

“Take me as your pet.”

Laurent jerked up in confusion to see the child he’d forgotten about, wide-eyed and pale as he stared at the scene before him.

“Take me as your pet,” he insisted. “Take me as your pet, and I’ll say he tried to kill you first. Do it. Say you’ll do it!”

“Fine,” Laurent whispered, still too shocked to think straight.

The boy smirked, and then he _screamed._

Guards rushed in, led by Uncle’s man- Govart.

Laurent could only stay where he’d collapsed to the ground, staring at Uncle’s corpse, while the boy carried on, wailing and spinning wild stories.

They believed him. Everyone believed him. Before long Pascal was there, leading Laurent back to his own room while the boy followed.

Pascal looked over the both of them before drawing away, and then Laurent was left alone with a viper tucked into bed with him.

“I don’t even know your name,” Laurent said, staring at the poisonous little monster who Uncle had tried to replace him with.

“My name is Nicaise,” the boy said with a shaky smile. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Majesty.”


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Laurent felt like he was slowly waking from a nightmare. He ordered the Regent’s red banners taken down and replaced with mourning blacks.

Auguste was two years gone, and in that time he’d been too busy mourning to deal with his real enemy.

Damianos. The Prince Killer.

For the first time in a long time, Laurent felt properly awake. He didn’t waste his time in Auguste’s rooms anymore, though he painstakingly moved Auguste’s armor into his own bedroom, piece by bloody piece. He didn’t want anyone else touching it, but he needed the reminder of his life’s ultimate purpose. And if he still spoke to the armor from time to time, he made sure it was when no one was around to hear him.

He worked at consolidating his power and getting ready to strike.

First he summoned Auguste’s guard, only now finding out that they’d been dismissed long ago. He summoned Jord and Orlant and all the other men his brother had hand picked to protect him. Laurent sent for them and they came, and then he set about winning their respect.

He focused on sword training and strategy, recovering his reputation after all the lies Uncle had spread about him through the court.

“Guion plans to move against you,” Nicaise said one night, eating sweets by the fire while Laurent practiced sword work in his rooms.

“Does he,” Laurent said, still dismissive of the child. He’d expected at least a few raised eyebrows at the idea that he’d contracted a ten year old to perform sexual services for him but none of the courtiers had batted an eyelash. Of course, why would they. They’d all turned their backs on Uncle’s not particularly well hidden predilections for years.

“Yes,” Nicaise said testily. “He favored the Regent, and now he thinks to get rid of you and take the throne for himself and his family.”

“Why are you telling me?” Laurent asked.

“So you can get rid of him,” Nicaise said, like it was obvious. “He likes boys, same as the Regent. I can get to him easily enough, I just need poison to slip into his wine.”

Laurent stopped abruptly, still breathing hard. Slowly he turned to regard the vicious little boy he’d taken under his wing under threat of blackmail and fully against his better judgement. “And why would you do that?” he asked.

Nicaise scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. “I think we’re of the same mind as far as child-fuckers are concerned,” he said bluntly. “So why wouldn’t I do it? Besides- you’re the future king, the best contract at court. And you don’t even demand to fuck me, either. It’s in my best interest to keep you alive. So give me poison and I’ll kill Guion for you. You can pick anyone you want to fill his place. Someone loyal to _you,_ not your bastard of an Uncle.”

To his own surprise, Laurent found himself seriously considering it. “If you get caught I’ll disavow you,” he said, only for Nicaise to roll his eyes.

“I won’t get caught,” he said. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Laurent echoed. “And who do you think I should replace him with?”

“That’s not for me to say,” Nicaise said with a shrug. 

“I’m asking.”

“Vannes,” Nicaise said without much more indecision. “She’s smart and mostly decent. She’s got ambition and no route for promotion otherwise. She’d be grateful and serve you well.”

Laurent considered it before nodding in agreement. “Very good,” he said at last. “I’ll see to it that you have everything you need.”

Maybe it was foolish to put his trust in a boy. But Nicaise was right in saying that his fortune was tied with Laurent’s now. And that Laurent was the best contract at court.

Laurent’s trust was well rewarded when in a week’s time Guion was found dead in his rooms, apparently from a heart attack. Laurent gave Nicaise a pair of expensive sapphire earrings and Vannes a seat on the council.

Chelaut was next. Laurent gave Nicaise a diamond necklace for that, and Chelaut’s council seat to Berenger, unambitious and unfailingly loyal to the crown. With Vannes and Berenger on his side along with Herode more often than not, at fifteen years old Laurent found himself in control of the court and the country.

But none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was Damianos.

When he wasn’t training, Laurent was building a spy network- largely facilitated by Nicaise and a few of the other pets. He sent his agents into Akielos to try and find their weaknesses, all while plotting the Prince Killer’s demise.

“Just send an assassin,” Nicaise said, inspecting his nails in boredom while Laurent paced before the fire, flipping through the latest missives from his agents.

“No,” he said. “He has to die by my hand.” He felt restless, on edge all the time like his skin was on fire. “Maybe I could...”

“What?” Nicaise prompted. “Disguise yourself and sneak into Ios? Climb over the palace wall and stab him in his sleep?”

“I don’t know,” Laurent said. “I could- invite him here, perhaps. For my coronation. I can make it look like an accident.”

Nicaise snorted in derision. “Please. Who would believe that? You’d start another war and get us all killed.”

“Or I could take back Delpheur,” Laurent said, running his hands restlessly through his hair, his fingers catching on tangles. “Take back Marlas. It makes me sick to think the land where- where-” he swallowed heavily. “It makes me sick that Delpheur belongs to Akielos.” 

“So you’ll send men to their deaths to take it back? Is that really what you want?”

Laurent stopped to lean against the table, rubbing at his temples with a wince. “I want my victory to be absolute and crushing. I want to make Damianos suffer for everything he’s done and then I want to make him watch as I take everything from him, like he’s taken everything from me. I want to take Delpheur and the rest of his filthy country, and then I want to burn it all to the ground! _All of it!”_

He wanted not to _hurt_ all the time, not to feel like his skin was crawling and his palace was full of traitors. He wanted Auguste.

“Oh,” Nicaise whispered. When Laurent looked up it was to see an uncharacteristic glint of sympathy in his blue eyes. “That won’t bring him back.”

Laurent flinched. “I know that,” he managed.

“Come, let’s play a game,” Nicaise said brightly, pulling a ragged deck of cards from somewhere in his diaphanous silks. He still insisted on dressing like a pet even though he was only that in name, though he did deign to throw a decadent fur over his bare shoulders whenever they were alone. “One of the stableboys taught me a fun one.”

“I don’t want to play a game.”

Nicaise pouted, sticking out his lower lip. “So you’ll pace here worrying yourself sick all night instead? Let me brush your hair at least. You look like a horror.”

“Nicaise,” Laurent said, his voice coming out strained. The last person to brush his hair had been Uncle, and the thought of letting someone else do it made him sick. He barely even did it himself these days, opting to simply run his fingers through it instead.

“If you don’t let me do it I’ll throw your letters into the fire,” Nicaise threatened and Laurent sighed.

He didn’t protest when Nicaise took his hand and led him over to sit in front of the dressing table. He nearly winced at his own reflection.

“I do look like a horror,” he whispered, bringing up his hand to poke at his sharp cheekbones. His skin was deathly pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. His severe black doublet, one of five identical ones he’d commissioned for himself, only made him look more like a ghost. His hair was a worse mess than he’d expected

“It’s because you hardly eat and you never sleep,” Nicaise muttered, combing out his hair. He wasn’t particularly careful, tugging cruelly on knots as though brute force alone would untangle them. It made Laurent’s eyes water with pain and with gratitude. Uncle had always been so careful, so gentle and slow. With Nicaise tugging at his hair and blabbering on about nonsense, Laurent would never forget where he was, who he was with.

“People will think I’m not taking good care of you,” Nicaise complained. “My value will go down.” It was an empty complaint. They both knew Nicaise wouldn’t go looking for a different contract. Not when he’d pinned down the future King of Vere.

“Maybe they’ll think you’re keeping me too busy with all the fucking we’re doing,” Laurent said with a faint frown. 

“As though anyone would fuck you looking like _this,”_ Nicaise said, still fussing over him. He tried to tie Laurent’s hair back with one of his own pretty blue ribbons but Laurent pulled it out of his hands, setting it down on the table. 

“What will you wear to your birthday feast?” Nicaise asked, undeterred. “Some color, at least. I’m begging you.”

Laurent frowned harder. “I wasn’t planning on going.”

“You have to go!” Nicaise wailed in protest. “I can’t go if you don’t go! Mathe from the kitchens said there’s going to be fire dancers and _sixteen_ different types of cake and- _please._ You can sneak out early if you want to be boring and terrible but you have to at least go for a _bit.”_

“Fine,” Laurent said, watching the way Nicaise’s face lit up with uncomplicated joy. Nicaise continued babbling excitedly about the feast but Laurent couldn’t hear him anymore. His thoughts were far away, his mind as always stuck on revenge. Revenge and Damianos.

* * *

No matter what he did, the problem of Damianos’ continued existence persisted.

Laurent tried to install spies in the palace at Ios, but it was no use. The servants were all slaves- trained from birth to be perfectly obedient to their brutish masters. The ranks of the guards were similarly impenetrable. Damianos’ prince’s guard was made up of unflinchingly loyal men he’d grown up with and trained with as a boy. No one else could get close enough, and even if they could- it didn’t matter.

Laurent wanted to make the killing blow himself. He _needed_ to.

A fruitless year passed, and then another. And then he received the potential answer to all his problems in the form of a cryptic letter from none other than Kastor- Damianos’ bastard brother.

Under the guise of touring his Kingdom, Laurent took a group of courtiers and a company of soldiers south to Fortaine, where he made sure to set Nicaise up in a room as far away from his as possible.

And still the little sneak was waiting for him out in the hall when Laurent emerged from his rooms in simple clothing and a dark cloak. He managed not to flinch as Nicaise glared, setting his hands on his hips and tapping his foot impatiently.

“Going for a midnight stroll, are you?” Nicaise asked, raising his eyebrow.

Laurent tightened his lips into a thin line in annoyance. “Something like that. Go back to your rooms.”

“No,” Nicaise said, impossible as always. “You’re being an idiot. You can’t meet with the bastard alone. It’s probably a trap.”

Laurent scowled, taking a step forward to loom over Nicaise threateningly. “How do you know about that?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.

“I snooped through your things, obviously,” Nicaise said. “Why did you even keep that stupid letter? You should have burned it. If anyone finds out you’ve been writing to Kastor-”

 _“Quiet,”_ Laurent snarled, grabbing him by the throat and shoving him backwards against the wall of the corridor.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Nicaise said defiantly, but he _was_ afraid. Laurent could see it in his eyes, could feel it in the way Nicaise’s pulse raced under his fingers, rabbit quick. He was terrified. And why shouldn’t he be? Laurent was eighteen now and Nicaise was so much smaller. He was just a boy.

“I’ll scream,” Nicaise said, his voice trembling and his eyes glistening like he was on the verge of tears. “I’ll scream and your guards will come and stop you.”

He was just a boy.

Laurent forced himself to let go and step back. “You won’t,” he said coldly. “You’re a smart boy, Nicaise. Smart boys know when to keep their mouths shut.”

He turned to walk away, pulling his cloak tighter around himself.

“That’s what _he_ used to say,” Nicaise said and Laurent stopped abruptly, reeling with the sudden wave of disgust that rose through him. He pressed his hand to the wall with a gasp, trying to swallow back bile. “But he said it sweeter,” Nicaise continued. “Not mean, like you. You should practice, if that’s how you’re going to be. The sweetness worked better.”

Laurent closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

The last thing he was expecting was Nicaise slipping his small hand into Laurent’s own. He looked over to see Nicaise watching him, his face pinched with determination.

“If you’re going, I’m coming with you.”

“Nicaise,” Laurent whispered, not knowing how to even begin to apologize for what he’d said. For what he’d done. For everything.

“Don’t just stand there looking like an idiot,” Nicaise said. “We’re going to be late.”

They were silent until they reached the stables and Laurent saddled their horses.

“Did he really… say that to you?” he finally managed to ask.

“Of course not,” Nicaise scoffed. “He called me _sweetheart,_ same as you. No chance of mixing up names that way, in case he forgot who he was fucking. So many boys, I imagine we all looked the same in the dark.”

“Yes,” Laurent whispered as he climbed up into Belle’s saddle. “I imagine so.” 

He hated that it still hurt.

* * *

The meeting place was a small tavern in a sleepy little town just over the Akielon border. Nicaise insisted on going in first to make sure it wasn’t a trap and Laurent waited nervously outside for what felt like ages before Nicaise returned and gave him a grim nod.

Laurent went inside, looking around until he spotted the large Akielon sitting alone at a corner table. Laurent knew Damianos’ likeness by heart, and the resemblance was unmistakable. It was Kastor, the bastard. He had a beard just like Uncle and for a moment Laurent couldn’t bring himself to step closer. He’d never felt more like a child as he did in that moment, facing down Kastor all on his own.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Nicaise, laughing with the barmaid as he tried to wheedle her into giving him wine, and the strangling sensation around his heart eased slightly. Laurent took a deep breath and strode over with all the confidence he could muster, seating himself across the small rickety table from Kastor.

Kastor smiled widely, inclining his head in a polite nod. He looked like a predator and Laurent had to remind himself that he was the Crown Prince of Vere, sole heir to the throne and King in all but name, and Kastor was just a bastard, practically a nobody.

Laurent let his lips turn down into a subtle grimace. “Why have you called me here?”

“Right to business,” Kastor said, still smiling. “I respect that.” He took a long drink of ale while Laurent fought not to fidget.

Laurent waited expectantly, watching. Kastor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, setting the tankard down on the table.

“I’m concerned,” Kastor said. He didn’t seem concerned at all. “I see war brewing on the horizon between our two countries, and I want to prevent it. Our people have already suffered so much, don’t you think?”

Laurent raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Theomedes Exalted is growing older,” Kastor said, lowering his voice. “He’s been ill of late. When he finally passes, the throne will go to Damianos.”

Laurent barely contained a flinch at the name. The thought of _him_ rising to take the throne made Laurent want to puke. The Prince Killer deserved to die a slow torturous death, not frolic about in his coastal palace, fucking his harem of pretty slaves without a care in the world.

“He’s young,” Kastor continued. “Brash, brutal. He thirsts for glory, hungers for war. I fear he’ll bring it to your shores as soon as he ascends.”

“I see,” Laurent said. Of that he had no doubt. “But you intend to stop him.”

“I’ll need friends for that,” Kastor said, his voice dark with promise. “And I think you and I can be such wonderful friends, don’t you?”

Laurent had no intention of being friends with a traitorous bastard, but he wasn’t about to spit in the face of the only man who could help him get to Damianos. He forced himself to smile. “Oh yes,” he said.

“I’m so glad we understand each other,” Kastor said.

“Yes,” Laurent answered, standing. “I’ll be in contact with you very soon.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Your Majesty.”

“As am I,” Laurent said before leaning forward to whisper into Kastor’s ear. _“Exalted.”_

* * *

It took two years of careful maneuvering. Two years of clandestine letters and meetings, of training a hand-picked troupe of soldiers selected for their loyalty and their Akielon features, that Laurent would send to Kastor for his coup.

Two years of sending carefully disguised vials of poison for Kastor to slip into his father’s wine as the vicious old man who’d invaded Vere while the country grieved clung stubbornly to life. Two years of waiting and trembling anticipation, of nightmares and the cloying smell of forget-me-nots dogging his every step, of Auguste’s bloody armor standing over his bed, waiting patiently to be avenged.

 _Soon,_ his spies told him.

 _Soon,_ Kastor’s encoded letters told him.

 _Soon, soon, soon,_ and finally-

“King Theomedes has passed from this world,” a messenger announced to the assembled court while Laurent gripped the arm rests of his throne hard enough for his knuckles to go white. “Prince Damianos has been murdered in a rebellion by his own guard. Prince Kastor is to ascend the throne.”

The court exploded into hushed muttering and it took every scrap of will power he had for Laurent not to scream. “We shall send an ambassador to Akielos, then. To congratulate the new King.”

He looked around the court as though he hadn’t been considering who exactly to send for months now. “Lord Berenger,” he said at last, and the man bowed. “You’ll make the journey to Ios. I’ll have gifts prepared for you to present to Kastor Exalted.”

“As you command, Your Majesty,” Berenger said, setting his hand on his red-haired pet’s lower back before they left the hall together.

And then there was more _waiting_ and Laurent felt like he was going mad with it. He could only bring himself to eat or drink when Nicaise nagged him into it. He couldn’t bear to sleep. He was useless, letting correspondence and the work of the Kingdom pile up while he paced his rooms or stared out the window. _Waiting._

He felt like he’d been waiting so long now, and each minute stretched into eternity.

Berenger returned a month later. Laurent made sure the throne room was empty to receive him. He felt sick to his stomach as the doors finally opened and Berenger walked in, trailed by two dozen slaves. Once they came to a stop, the slaves prostrated themselves on the floor, trembling.

Laurent forced himself to stand. He already knew Damianos was not among them. Damianos was a warrior, not one of these waifish specters who’d had their free will trained out of them.

“One more,” Laurent muttered, shaking with the possibility that Kastor had betrayed him. “There’s meant to be one more.”

“Yes,” Berenger said. “The soldier.”

 _The soldier._ Of course. Damianos was dead, as everyone well knew. Laurent wondered if Berenger knew the truth. He made no sign of it one way or the other.

“He was too… unruly,” Berenger continued. “We had to keep him drugged on the ship so he wouldn’t cause trouble. I’ve had him put in a cell.”

“Send him to my rooms,” Laurent said.

“Your Majesty,” Berenger said with a grimace. “He’s dangerous. I don’t believe it’s wise to-”

“Send him to my rooms,” Laurent repeated sharply.

Berenger nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty. And what of the others?”

“Others?” Laurent asked, too distracted to think straight. Damianos was here. _Here._

Berenger opened his arms to gesture towards the young men and women kneeling before them. Laurent frowned.

“I don’t care,” he said at last. “I don’t need them. I trust you to do with them whatever you see fit.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Berenger said, bowing once more as Laurent swept out of the hall.

Laurent went to his rooms, dizzy with what he was about to do. He was about to come face to face with Damianos. And he was going to kill him.

He found himself in the kitchens instead, taking the first bottle of wine he set his eyes on. He hadn’t touched a drop since his fifteenth birthday, but he needed it now to quiet the screaming in his mind. He ended up drinking it all in his sitting room, staring at the shut doors leading to his bedroom.

Damianos was in there. The Prince Killer.

Eventually Laurent managed to force himself to stand, swaying on his feet. His vision was blurred at the edges but his mind was blank as he walked forward and threw the doors open.

There was a man kneeling at the foot of his bed, his hands shackled together behind his back. He wore nothing but a slip of silk around his hips and a gold collar that glinted in the dim candle light. When the door opened he slowly raised his head to look up.

Laurent faltered, his heart pounding in his chest. It was him. It was the man who’d killed Auguste and Laurent was terrified.

He was huge, dark skinned and powerful. There was a chain connecting his collar to a ring in the floor Laurent had ordered installed in preparation for this very moment. The chain was sturdy, as well as the ring. Suddenly Laurent was sure that Damianos might break free at any moment, purely by the strength of the hatred that shone in his eyes.

Laurent felt a drop of cold sweat trail down his back and suppressed a shiver. What had he _done?_ He’d brought a monster into his chambers. A beast who could kill him with his bare hands as easy as breathing. He’d thought he would feel satisfaction in this moment, but he only felt like a boy standing before a lion.

He looked beyond Damianos to see Auguste’s armor standing by the bed and steeled himself, taking a step closer.

“I’ve been thinking about what to do with you,” he said in careful Akielon, proud to hear his voice wasn’t trembling. “I’ve been doing nothing else for quite some time now.”

“Sounds to me like you’ve been drinking, sweetheart,” Damianos sneered in near perfect Veretian.

_Sweetheart._

Laurent felt it like a physical blow and reacted in kind, backhanding Damianos across the face. Damianos took it with a quiet grunt and Laurent watched in satisfaction as blood dripped down his cheek from the cut left by Laurent’s heavy signet ring.

“You’ll address me as Your Majesty or not at all, filthy Akielon scum,” Laurent spit out.

“You’re no King of mine,” Damianos answered, so Laurent hit him again. That time there was a crack and he smirked at Damianos’ pained groan.

“Maybe I’ll break you on the cross,” Laurent said. “Or give you to my guards to use as they like. I think I’d enjoy watching.”

Damianos recoiled in disgust.

“You don’t like that idea?” Laurent asked. “Maybe I can think of a better one.”

His head was pounding, he felt like he might be sick at any moment. The room was stifling, too small to contain Damianos and the weight of Laurent’s grief all at once. There were tears stinging at his eyes but he would not weep before his brother’s killer. He wouldn’t. 

The walls were closing in on him and he staggered back a step, running into solid steel. Auguste’s armor, standing behind him.

He reached out, his hand closing around the hilt of Auguste’s sword and pulling it free of its sheath as Damianos stared wide-eyed.

Laurent brought the tip of the sword up to Damianos’ neck. It would be so easy to kill him, all he had to do was push forward and it would all be over. He had to kill him. Here, now. He had to do it now. He couldn’t let Auguste wait a moment longer.

Auguste’s sword was so heavy. Had it always been this heavy? Laurent’s fingers were numb. It was so cold he could see his breath in white clouds before him.

There was a strange sound, steel against steel, the creaking of leather. A cold hand settled over his shoulder and Laurent couldn’t keep hold of the sword anymore. It was too heavy, his hands too numb.

The sword fell from his grasp, clattering to the stone.

The air felt charged with something strange and familiar but Laurent didn’t know what it was. Damianos was still _staring_ at him. Or- not at him. At something behind him. Laurent was too afraid to look. As soon as he looked away from Damianos he’d break free of his bonds and-

The door burst open and warmth rushed in. It was like a spell breaking, a decanter of wine shattering. The strange charged moment was over.

Laurent turned, blinking slowly as though he were waking from a dream, to see Nicaise standing in the doorway. For some reason he’d been expecting someone else.

“You’re not going to kill him in _here,_ are you?” Nicaise asked, wrinkling his nose as he stepped forward and took Laurent’s hand. Laurent nearly flinched at how _warm_ he was. “You’ll stain the rug. Why don’t I have the guards come take him away. You can kill him tomorrow if you like. Preferably somewhere else.”

He tugged on Laurent’s hand to lead him away and Laurent went, still trapped in some sort of stupor. It wasn’t until he’d left the room that he managed a deep gasping breath. It sounded wet, almost like a sob.

“Stop it,” Nicaise muttered, leading Laurent into his bedroom, off of Laurent’s own rooms. He fussed over Laurent, helping him get undressed before tucking him into bed. “Idiot,” he said fondly, stroking Laurent’s hair.

“I couldn’t do it,” Laurent whispered. He’d never hated himself more.

“You’ll do it tomorrow then,” Nicaise said easily. “Or the day after. What does it matter? He’s here now. You’ve done it, finally. Now you can kill him and move on.”

“Can I?” Laurent asked. He wasn’t sure he knew how.

* * *

He hadn’t thought it was possible, but knowing Damianos was in his grasp only made Laurent feel worse.

It was all he could think about, turning over possibilities in his mind only to discard them. He wanted to make the Prince Killer suffer just as much as he wanted to be rid of him. The only thing he knew for certain was that he couldn’t bear to face Damianos again.

He let the Prince Killer languish in solitude, always under heavy guard. He tossed and turned through nightmares of the final battle, though now he saw Damianos as he was- older, stronger, more powerful. Instead of fighting Auguste he was fighting Laurent, and when Laurent lay defeated at his feet, he’d turn into Auguste and strangle him while smiling.

That last part was the only reason Laurent could even bear to look at his bed anymore. At least at the end of it he’d get to see Auguste smile.

He needed to do something about Damianos. He needed to end it, once and for all. He found himself frozen, instead.

He probably should have expected Nicaise to force the issue.

It happened at dinner weeks later, some minor occasion that meant Laurent’s attendance was required. One of his Council members had a birthday, perhaps. Laurent wasn’t sure which one. Maybe Berenger, as he was the one sitting in the place of honor to Laurent’s right. Nicaise would know, but Nicaise was notably absent.

Laurent didn’t pay it much mind. Recently Nicaise had developed a debilitating crush on one of the stable boys. He spent most of his time sighing heavily and gazing out of windows. He was probably in the stables, spying while his darling mucked out stalls.

Just as Laurent had thought it, the main doors opened and Nicaise strode in, haughty and dressed in his best silks and jewels. He held a delicate gold rod in his hand, attached to a flimsy chain. The other end of the chain was attached to the collar Damianos wore. Laurent froze, his fingers tightening over the arms of his chair.

Nicaise was smirking as he led Damianos closer, completely unrestrained but for that _joke_ of a leash. Damianos was nude but for a whisp of silk around his hips and a preponderance of gold jewelry. His skin was painted like a pet’s and his hair pulled back into elaborate braids. The overall effect was like putting lace panties on a warhorse. He looked utterly ridiculous.

“Nicaise,” Laurent said coldly as they came within earshot. “What are you doing?”

“What’s the point of keeping a slave if you don’t show him off?” Nicaise asked, shoving the gold handler’s rod into Laurent’s hands before climbing into his lap and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He stuck out his tongue at Damianos, who scowled in response. The scowl was rendered almost comical by his gaudy red lip paint.

Laurent huffed out a quiet breath that was nearly a laugh. Nicaise raised an eyebrow and smiled his knowing smirk.

“Little brat,” Laurent muttered under his breath. Damianos was much less frightening like this, painted like a whore and practically naked in the middle of a banquet hall filled with guards and courtiers. He wasn’t quite de-fanged or de-clawed, not by a long shot. But this was close.

Laurent managed to smile at Nicaise, who preened at the attention.

“Well?” Nicaise asked snootily, staring up at Damianos. “Kneel.”

Damianos scowled harder. And then he knelt at Laurent’s side, ducking his head to glare at the floor.

“Good boy,” Nicaise said, reaching out to pat the top of his head like he were a particularly obedient dog. “I think he deserves a treat.”

“Give him one, if you like,” Laurent said, looking back into the center of the hall where two pets were dancing sensually. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Nicaise picked a chocolate off a plate and held it up to Damianos’ lips.

Damianos stared at it as though Nicaise were offering him a wriggling cockroach. Nevertheless, he leaned forward and took it delicately between his teeth. Nicaise laughed in delight.

“I see you’ve got the beast behaving,” Laurent muttered. “However did you manage that.”

“We have an understanding. Don’t we?” The last was directed at Damianos, who frowned and stayed silent.

“It turns out he cares quite a bit for the fates of the other slaves,” Nicaise said. “I simply told him every time he acted out, you’d execute one.”

“Hm,” Laurent said. “Sensible.”

Berenger shifted uneasily in his seat and Laurent shot him a glare. Luckily he stayed silent. In truth Laurent wasn’t sure what Berenger had decided to do with all of them. Last he heard, they were being tutored in Veretian and trained as… entertainers, perhaps. Court musicians, scribes. Laurent hadn’t been paying very much attention.

Whatever it was, it would be a better life than servicing Akielon barbarians, which was no life at all. He sipped his water and resolutely did not look at Damianos kneeling at his feet, silent and obedient, while Nicaise tried to get a rise out of him.

“How _much_ do you care about the other slaves?” Laurent asked, letting his words drip with contempt. “Were I in your place, I don’t imagine I’d play along with my captivity for the sake of mere _belongings.”_

Damianos stiffened, his hands curling into fists. Laurent felt a faint thrill of danger, his hand tightening over his dinner knife. 

“They’re not- _belongings,”_ Damianos growled.

“No?” Laurent asked mildly. “Are you sure? Why don’t we make a trade. The lives of the slaves, in return for your freedom.”

Damianos froze and Nicaise looked over at Laurent with a faint frown.

“No answer?” Laurent pushed. “Surely you’d like to return to Akielos. To confront the bastard king who sent you here, if nothing else. To settle some unfinished business, perhaps. Here’s your chance.”

Damianos scowled, practically vibrating with tension. He was considering it. He thought he was so noble but Laurent would show him that he was nothing but a brutish monster.

“Maybe just one slave, then,” Laurent said, pushing in the face of Damianos’ silence. “I can summon one right now, the one they say was in training to be the Prince Killer’s bedwarmer. What was his name?”

“Erasmus, Your Majesty,” Berenger said quietly.

“Erasmus,” Laurent repeated. “Such a pretty thing, so proud of his submission. I’m sure he’d be glad to fall on a sword to prove just how _obedient_ he is. That’s what you train them for, isn’t it? To think of nothing but the pleasure of their betters-”

“Stop it,” Damianos said, his voice low and shaking. “Even if I believed you- _especially_ if I believed you- the answer would be no.”

Laurent frowned, looking back out to the center of the hall where a pet was singing to the accompaniment of a harp. Of course Damianos would refuse, seeing the suggestion for the taunt it was. Still, Laurent felt annoyed, unsettled. He took another drink and tried to think about anything else.

Dinner continued to crawl onwards until Berenger’s pet, Ancel, walked out into the cleared center of the room flanked by two of the former Akielon slaves. Ancel held his fire sticks, unlit for now. Each of the slaves held a torch.

“I wouldn’t have thought Ancel capable of sharing the stage,” Laurent said, not missing the way Damianos had tensed, watching. No doubt trying to figure out if his precious little slaves had been mistreated. Laurent had the sudden desire to kick him and managed to restrain himself. The audacity of a man whose people routinely turned humans into chattel worrying that _Laurent_ would hurt the sad pitiful results was infuriating.

“He doesn’t mind so long as he’s the center of attention,” Berenger answered with a fond smile, drawing Laurent out of his dark thoughts.

The slaves came forward and lit Ancel’s fire sticks before withdrawing so he could do his dance to the lively beating of drummers.

“They say the Veretian idea of entertainment is watching pets rape each other,” Damianos muttered under his breath.

Laurent’s gut seized unpleasantly. “Is that what you’d prefer?” he asked. Ancel’s dance was coming to an end and finally he bowed to raucous applause. The noise felt far away. “Maybe you’re curious to experience it first hand. Would you like me to put you in the ring, sweetheart?”

Nicaise glared at Laurent sharply but Laurent refused to look back at him.

Damianos scoffed, looking down once more. Nicaise pinched Laurent cruely in the arm before pointedly feeding Damianos another chocolate.

“Excuse me, I have somewhere else to be,” Nicaise said, climbing off Laurent’s lap and sauntering away just as Ancel came over and kissed Berenger enthusiastically on the mouth.

“As do I,” Laurent said, standing. He managed to say something decently polite to Ancel about his performance before walking away, holding the end of Damianos’ leash almost as an afterthought.

Jord and Orlant followed them out of the hall, their quiet footsteps a comfort even though Laurent knew deep in his gut- if Damianos suddenly decided to kill him, they wouldn’t be able to stop him in time.

“Why am I here,” Damianos asked quietly.

“Why indeed,” Laurent said. “It was your bastard King who decided to send you to me.”

Because that was the condition of their deal. Otherwise Kastor would have had Damianos murdered in the coup along with the rest of his household. Maybe that would have been better. Except Laurent knew he wouldn’t have been able to sleep at night, doubting that Damianos was really dead for the rest of his life. Then again, it wasn’t as though he could sleep now.

“I only meant-” Damianos started only to stop. “You have no use for me. Clearly you don’t want me. Why are you keeping me? I’m- no one.”

Laurent nearly laughed at the absurdity of that statement. Did Damianos really think Laurent didn’t know who he was? Did he think his bastard brother had come up with this whole farce on his own?

“No one,” Laurent repeated, sick to his stomach. “Not quite. Not yet. But soon, you will be.”

He couldn’t take another second of the Prince Killer’s company so he handed the leash off to Jord and turned on his heel to put as much distance between himself and Damianos as he could.

There was still work to be done. He had Damianos and he would kill him. Soon. But he wasn’t finished, not by far. He wouldn’t be finished until Akielos lay burned and broken under his feet.

He returned to his room and sat at his writing desk, penning a letter to the Kyros Nikandros, the ruler of Delpheur and, if his spies were correct, Damianos’ dearest childhood friend.

Laurent told Nikandros all about Kastor’s coup and his own part in it. He included the letters that Kastor had sent him, and in the event that it wasn’t enough, he added Kastor’s other gift- sent to him by private messenger in advance of the slaves. 

Damianos’ lion pin.

* * *

Laurent was stalling. He knew he was, but he deluded himself with excuses. What if Nikandros didn’t believe him? What if he needed Damianos? What if he could use Damianos somehow to further his goals?

His excuses abruptly ran out when he got word that Nikandros was raising an army and planning on marching south to take the capitol.

This was it- what Laurent had wanted all along. Civil war in Akielos, fire and destruction, the blood of his enemies running through the white streets of Ios. He didn’t need Damianos alive for what was to come. In fact that would only be a detriment to his plans. How could he lead armies knowing he had a lion chained up at his feet, gnashing its teeth and looking for the first opportunity to escape?

It was time to finish it. At midnight Laurent took Auguste’s sword and stalked down to the room where Damianos was being kept.

Jord made some token protest but opened it without question. Damianos was lying on the floor in the darkness but he scrambled to his feet at the intrusion. He was in a plain tunic and not much else, bearded and wild-eyed. He looked worse for wear after weeks of captivity and meagre rations.

He was weak and powerless, unarmed.

“Come,” Laurent said with a sneer. “Your time is up.” 

Auguste’s sword felt heavy in Laurent’s hand, the grip cold and slick with Laurent’s sweat. He’d expected to feel like a righteous warrior, but instead he felt like a butcher.

“Why are you doing this,” Damianos asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Laurent laughed, the sound of it coming out sharp and horrific, like a door opening on rusted hinges. “Why?” he repeated. “You know why, _Damianos.”_

There was a chain connecting Damianos’ collar to a link in the floor, locked securely. Laurent didn’t have the key but he bent down anyway to take the end of it. The lock opened and he yanked hard, pulling Damianos forward and dragging him out of the room.

Jord and Orlant might have said something, protested. Laurent ordered them back as he marched through the empty halls, sword in one hand and chain in the other, Damianos stumbling after him.

They reached the stables and Laurent ordered the frightened stable boys to saddle his horse.

“Please,” Damianos said. “Please, Laurent-”

“Shut up,” Laurent hissed, yanking on the chain hard enough that Damianos fell to his knees.

Belle tossed her head, shying nervously. Laurent wrapped the end of the chain around the pommel of her saddle before mounting. “Stand or I’ll drag you,” he said before digging in his heels.

Belle started to walk, and then to trot. Laurent turned north, towards the forest. He didn’t look back at Damianos, didn’t listen to his shuffling footsteps or attempts at speech. All he could hear was the rushing of his own blood, and in the distance- thunder.

The wind picked up as they entered the forest, the tree-branches waving wildly overhead. Lightning lit the way before them, followed by thunder and icy rain.

Laurent didn’t pay it any mind, other than annoyance at how the weather slowed their progress. He needn’t have worried- they reached the ancient Artesian ruins within the hour and Laurent pulled Belle to a stop, dismounting and taking hold of the chain once more.

“Stop this,” Damianos said, his chest heaving and his eyes desperate. His tunic was soaked through. He’d never looked more pitiful and Laurent had never hated him more.

 _“No,”_ he snarled, stepping forward as he brandished Auguste’s sword. “You took _everything_ from me, and I’ll take everything from you. Your father, your crown, your country. I sent your man Nikandros proof of Kastor’s plot against you and he marches on Ios even now.”

Damianos’ eyes widened in shock and Laurent grinned as he stepped closer. “Your country will be torn apart by civil war, and that’s when I’ll bring my army south and burn everything you ever loved. I’ll salt your lands and raze your capitol to the ground. I’ll tear your palace apart brick by brick and cast it into the sea.”

“You’re mad,” Damianos whispered, shivering.

“Run,” Laurent whispered back. “Run for your life, _Prince Killer.”_

He let the chain drop from his hand and watched as Damianos took a jerky step back, and then another. Finally he turned and ran.

Laurent closed his eyes, turning his face up into the driving rain, and took a deep breath. This was better. This was almost… fair. He waited five beats before giving chase.

Thunder rolled through his very bones, lightning lit his way. He knew these ruins, and for the first time since he’d set eyes on Damianos, Laurent felt like the hunter rather than the prey.

The rain was too loud to hear any signs of movement but Laurent could feel it in his gut that he and Damianos were connected now, and there would be no escape for either of them.

As he passed under a crumbling archway he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, turning just in time to see Damianos coming at him, wielding the chain like a weapon. Laurent raised his sword to deflect the blow and went on the offensive, driving Damianos back over the rain-slick stones. 

Auguste’s sword was heavier than his heart but the fury that had settled into his very soul drove him onwards, trading blow for blow with the man who’d ruined him. In the end his victory lacked glory. Damianos slipped on a stone, staggering backwards and falling to his knees. Laurent stepped forward, holding the sword to his neck.

His body was numb with the cold, his mind numb with grief and sickening satisfaction. Everything he’d worked for for so long now was within his grasp. He raised the sword, ready to cleave Damianos’ head from his body.

Damianos didn’t beg or struggle, he simply looked back at Laurent with his mouth set in a tight determined line. He knew this was his end and he faced it without fear, like Auguste had done.

For a moment Laurent felt doubt bursting through him, cold and shivering. Once this was done, he’d have nothing else. Nothing to live for but blood and conquest. But he’d been walking down this path so long now, each step carrying him further and further away from who he’d been and could have one day become. He was nothing but a shade of himself, and there was nothing left for him but to take the final step.

He brought the sword down as lightning flashed. When it hit Laurent was jarred by steel crashing against steel. The sword came down on Auguste’s armor, come from nowhere to stand in front of Damianos’ kneeling form.

Laurent screamed, helpless as he watched himself strike Auguste down, the armor falling to pieces before him and spilling forget-me-nots over the ancient pitted stone. There were dozens of them, hundreds, withering before his very eyes.

Laurent dropped the sword and _wailed,_ falling to his knees.

“Auguste!” he cried out as his shaking fingers scrambled to put the armor back together. It was no use- the metal plates were bent out of shape from the killing blow he’d meant for Damianos. The leather straps were dry and cracked, the buckles broken.

“Auguste,” he screamed into the night, losing him all over again. He felt like his ribs had caved in and no matter how hard he gasped he couldn’t seem to draw in any air. That didn’t seem important as he stared at the rain battering the armor.

The rain- Auguste’s armor would rust in the rain. Laurent tried to shield it with his own body but it was useless.

He couldn’t smell the flowers anymore, he couldn’t smell anything. There was no air in his lungs as he sobbed helplessly, his vision blurring, darkening.

Everything he’d done had been for nothing and he couldn’t _breathe._

* * *

“Laurent,” said a warm beloved voice.

Laurent opened his eyes to see he was lying in a lush meadow on the bank of a pond, his head pillowed on Auguste’s thigh. He looked strong and healthy, dressed plainly in a white tunic and simple trousers.

“Auguste,” Laurent whispered, smiling. A dragonfly buzzed past, glittering more brightly than the finest jewels.

Auguste smiled back, his curls tousled by the gentle breeze and catching the sunlight like gold. He raised his hand to cup Laurent’s cheek. “You know I love you,” he said.

“Yes,” Laurent whispered, taking Auguste’s hand in both of his and pressing it to his heart.

“And I’ll always be proud of you,” Auguste said. “No matter what you do.”

Laurent’s eyes prickled with tears but he didn’t dare close them. He never wanted this vision- this dream- whatever it was- to end.

“I only hope that when the time comes,” Auguste continued, “you’ll do the right thing.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Laurent said. The sun was setting too quickly and he watched the shadows moving over Auguste’s face.

“You will,” Auguste said, full of conviction and strength. “I know you will.”

He squeezed Laurent’s hand, his smile growing softer. “I trust you, baby brother. But it’s time to wake up.”

* * *

Laurent woke in his own bed, sore and sick and somehow better rested than he’d felt in years. Nicaise was sitting in a chair at his bedside, playing solitaire with his ragged deck of cards.

“Nicaise,” Laurent croaked out.

Nicaise startled, looking up. He grinned, his smile full of relief. “You’re awake.”

“What happened?” Laurent asked. “How did I get here?”

Nicaise grimaced. “He brought you back. Damianos.”

Laurent closed his eyes and let out a pained sigh. “Where is he.”

“In a cell,” Nicaise said. “No one knew what to do with him. Jord wanted to execute him. Berenger said to wait until you woke.”

_I can only hope that when the time comes, you’ll do the right thing._

Laurent swallowed, miserable. He couldn’t believe the words that he was about to say. “Make sure he has clothes and provisions,” he whispered. “And set him free.”

“What?!” Nicaise yelped. “Set him- _free?”_

Laurent raised his hand and pulled off his signet ring, dropping it into Nicaise’s palm. “I think we’ve hurt each other enough. Go set him free.”

Nicaise frowned, closing his hand around the ring. “...If you’re sure.”

“I’m not,” Laurent said. “Go before I change my mind.”

Nicaise stood, grinning. “You know I can do all sorts of naughty things while I’ve got your seal.”

“But you won’t,” Laurent said, managing a weak smile of his own. “Go on, you wicked brat.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Nicaise said and practically ran out.

Laurent managed to doze off again after. When Paschal brought him supper, he ate. When the sun set, he slept. In the morning he returned to the Artesian ruins for Auguste’s armor. There was nothing left but a patch of forget-me-nots, blooming in the sun.

He picked a bunch and returned to Arles, laying the bouquet over Auguste’s marble casket.

He ordered the mourning blacks to be taken down and replaced with the sunburst banner. He commissioned new doublets, in blue rather than black. Auguste was gone now, and he’d spent too long lost in grief. Auguste wouldn’t have liked it, for Laurent to lose himself in mourning.

Three days passed and Laurent thought that might be the end of it. Until Nicaise strode into the throne room in the middle of audiences, leading a giant of a man in a cloak behind him.

Laurent knew who it was even before Damianos threw off the hood to stand before him, proud and upright in fine leather armor. Laurent didn’t dare move from where he sat sprawled over his throne, watching to see what Damianos would do next as the court exploded in hushed whispers.

“Your Majesty, King Laurent,” Damianos said, stepping forward and dropping to one knee.

“Damianos,” Laurent replied, causing the whispers to rise to full-blown gasps. Everyone recognized his so-called slave and the revelation of his true identity threw them into dizzying new heights of scandalized gossip. “Why have you come?”

“I’ve come to ask for your help,” Damianos said, his voice steady and stern, his gaze even more so. “I need military aid to take my throne back from its usurper.”

“And why should I help you undo all my careful work?” Laurent asked, his heart pounding. He’d thought it was over. He’d wanted it to be over.

“You said it yourself,” Damianos said with a wry smile. “We’ve hurt each other enough. Help me.”

“Why?” Laurent demanded, straightening and leaning forward, narrowing his eyes. He’d agreed to free Damianos, not _help_ him. He’d never thought to _help_ him with anything.

Damianos rose to his feet before speaking again. “I’ll return Delpha to you.” He winced. “Delpheur,” he corrected uneasily.

Laurent raised his eyebrows, waiting.

Damianos flushed, flustered in a most satisfying way. “I’m giving you a chance to leave a different legacy than the one you’ve been building,” he said.

“What else?” Laurent asked.

“I’m giving you the chance to do the right thing,” Damianos said, reaching into his belt pouch and pulling out a single forget-me-not, holding it out like an offering. “I’m giving you the chance to live for something that isn’t hatred or revenge. Help me.”

Laurent released a slow breath, leaning back in his throne. Nicaise was glaring at him, standing with his arms crossed. Laurent only had eyes for Damianos, standing before him.

_I can only hope that when the time comes, you’ll do the right thing._

“Lord Berenger,” Laurent said sharply, gratified with the way the man tensed and looked over, waiting attentively.

“Summon my bannermen,” Laurent announced. “We’re going to war.”  
  


_fin._

__

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [barbitone](http://barbitone.tumblr.com/) and pillowfort also at [barbitone](https://www.pillowfort.io/barbitone)


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